7
THORRIN
The attack comes during the deepest part of night, when darkness presses against our small fire like living thing seeking entry.
I'm maintaining watch while the others sleep, ancient instincts keeping me alert despite exhaustion that settles into bones like winter cold. The forest around us holds normal sounds—wind through bare branches, small creatures moving through undergrowth, the distant call of hunting owl seeking prey.
Then wrongness intrudes. Scent that doesn't belong, movement that breaks natural patterns, presence that radiates hunger and madness in equal measure.
Waira.
But not like any I've encountered. This one moves with jerky, uncontrolled motions that speak of mind fractured beyond repair. His approach lacks tactical thinking, strategic planning, even basic survival instinct. Just raw compulsion driving him forward like moth drawn to flame.
I'm on my feet before conscious thought processes the threat, claws extending as predatory awareness floods throughmy frame. Behind me, the others stir at subtle changes in my posture that signal immediate danger.
"Wake," I whisper without taking eyes off the treeline. "We have contact."
The attacker emerges from shadows with snarl that carries no intelligence, only fevered conviction that transforms simple sound into ideological statement. He's smaller than me by several inches, younger by decades, but moves with absolute certainty that makes size irrelevant.
"Soft ones," he hisses, voice carrying harmonics that resonate with religious fervor. "Weak ones. Diseased ones who cling to poison and call it cure."
The words pour from him like prayer, like catechism learned through repetition until meaning becomes secondary to rhythm. He's not speaking to us—he's reciting scripture that has replaced rational thought.
He launches himself forward with suicide attack that prioritizes ideology over survival, claws aimed at my throat with precision that speaks of extensive combat experience. But his technique lacks coordination, timing thrown off by whatever madness drives him.
I meet his charge with defensive posture that redirects momentum rather than matching force directly. Centuries of survival have taught me efficiency over dramatic gesture. Let him exhaust energy on empty air while I position for counterattack.
His claws rake across my shoulder, drawing blood that spatters the frozen ground like crimson flowers. Pain flares bright and sharp, but superficial. Theatrical wounds that look worse than they feel.
Behind me, Kaerith rises with fluid motion that transforms sleep into readiness without transition period. His heart-light flares brilliant gold as combat instincts engage, but underneaththe surface color runs something darker that I've never seen before.
The infected Waira fights with desperate fury that lacks tactical awareness, making him dangerous in unpredictable ways while remaining vulnerable to coordinated response.
Kaerith circles left while I maintain frontal engagement, our coordination speaking of years fighting together despite recent tensions. Whatever changes grief has carved into him, muscle memory of partnership remains intact.
"The source calls," our attacker pants between strikes that grow wilder with each failed attempt. "The pure one who speaks truth. He shows us what we are, what we must become."
His words carry conviction that transforms madness into evangelism. He genuinely believes he's performing sacred duty, eliminating corruption that threatens some greater good. The certainty makes him more dangerous than simple rage would achieve.
But belief cannot replace skill. When he overextends attempting to reach Lyssa's position, Kaerith takes advantage with strike that shatters his left shoulder, rendering that arm useless while preserving mobility.
The infected Waira staggers but doesn't fall, pain only intensifying his fevered determination. "You cannot stop the cure," he snarls through gritted teeth. "The weak will be cleansed. The diseased will be purified. The source demands it."
"What source?" I demand while maintaining defensive position.
"The first one. The pure one who burns away delusion." His voice carries reverence that borders on worship. "He calls through the wind, through the moonlight, through the consciousness we share. All who truly understand hear his voice."
Kaerith moves with sudden violence that ends the fight before our captive realizes he's been outmaneuvered. Claws find pressure points that induce paralysis without permanent damage—technique that speaks of knowledge I didn't realize he possessed.
When did he learn to disable opponents with surgical precision?
The infected Waira collapses, limbs unresponsive but consciousness intact. Perfect condition for interrogation. Perfect helplessness for whatever methods Kaerith and Elira have been discussing in their private conferences.
"Secure him," Elira says, emerging from shadows with rope that suggests she anticipated this outcome. "We need information about their network, their methods, their leadership structure."
But the way she looks at our captive carries hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with tactical intelligence. Something that recognizes opportunity for practical application of theories discussed in whispers.
What begins as necessary intelligence gathering transforms into something else entirely within the first few questions.
